


From the dancer at the edge of the spiral

by laughingpineapple



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Final Fantasy X, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-22 21:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20880890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/pseuds/laughingpineapple
Summary: It's a tale as old as sin: there is a summoner, whose sacrificial journey will end in death no matter whether in success or in defeat, and there is a guardian, who would just rather have him back. These are the roles set out for them. It is up to Jowd to dance for the dead and he leaves a little bit too much of himself behind; it is up to Cabanela to put his foot down and have absolutely none of that.





	From the dancer at the edge of the spiral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siver/gifts).

> I stuck to one scene near the beginning of what appears to be one weird journey, I hope it works...

It's the second-to-last step to the shore when Jowd - _Lord_ Jowd now, a title that fits well on his broad shoulders but still rolls uncomfortably off the tongue - falters and loses his summoner's grip on the surface of the water. The spell is broken, his feet slip and fall through the waves, pushing him off balance, and Jowd accepts that the sacred ceremony will end with the newly anointed Lord Summoner biting a faceful of sand. He is too tired to fight against this notion, to find his footing and face the townsfolk gathered by the shore with any semblance of dignity. With the single-mindedness that comes with exhaustion, in that moment all his focus, all that matters to him is that his audience, at least, should find it funny. It says in the job description that summoners are to bring smiles to the people of Spira; the rules are not too clear as to how not to do so, and so Jowd is ready to call the day a success.

He does not fall.

He cannot fall. Cabanela has been following his summoner's little improvised choreography on the water's surface, the part of the ritual that took place in the material world, swift footwork and tense muscles keeping a precarious balance above the waves as Jowd's spirit, unseen, communed with the dead and eased their regrets. Tapping his foot to the rhythm of the villagers' chanting and humming its foreign tune, loudly enough to garner a few sideward glances, hasn't taken Cabanela's attention off the main deal. By the time Jowd's absolute concentration breaks, his breath has already been getting short and irregular, and cold sweat has joined the water spray pooling in his brow. On cue, Cabanela hops on the beach, into the cold water, and in one fluid movement he is planting his feet on the sandbed and propping up Jowd with an arm under his shoulder.

They almost fall, alright. But they don't, and that's what matters. Jowd must have known deep down that his guardian was coming, he recognizes him and drops his staff into the sea to wrap his hand around Cabanela's shoulder. They are a team. Balancing their unstable footing, Cabanela manages to pivot them both out of the water's edge and onto the soft sand, where they drop like actors as curtain close. He raises one arm to wave at the small crowd to disperse, trusting the temple monks to handle the rabble and carry out the formalities. Can't they see that the lord summoner is inconvenienced? Lord Jowd shall meet with them all later, or better yet, tomorrow. His guardian is feeling just fine, thanks for askin', he's fine where he is. Just leave them alone.

"Eeexit stage left, we said in Zanarkand..."

"You said... a lot of things in that Zanarkand of yours," says Jowd, still struggling to catch his breath. He has been staring at the darkening sky as the sand grows colder under their backs. The beach has emptied and the waves have long since carried his staff back next to their side. "And I'm still not convinced that's not a royal we."

Cabanela is lying down next to him, stretched on his side like a cat. He finds his summoner more interesting than the first stars above. "Maybe it is, baby," he teases. "Maybe it iiis." 

"What? Are you pulling my leg? I have to warn you, it's quite heavy."

"I pulled all of you out of the water earlier, you know."

"I know." A quick smile grows under his beard, fond, thankful, always guarded. "How'd I do?"

"A whole, total, unmitigated disaster. All across the board… Whateeever shall we do with you, baby?"

"You tell me. I'll play along."

As he speaks, Jowd decides that he is tired of staying still and makes an effort to sit up, leaving a trail of drenched robes behind him that give him the looks of a stranded jellyfish. If he leaves on his pilgrimage, and he can see within him that the day looms ever nearer, he swears to himself that he will do away with Yevon's ceremonial robes, fit only for priests and scriveners.

He turns to his side and offers his hand to Cabanela, helping him to sit up as well. Cabanela being Cabanela, he sees a hand and takes the entire arm, clinging to his biceps with candid enthusiasm and taking the liberty to use that momentum to roll into Jowd's lap altogether. An armful of his lanky guardian was not what Jowd had in mind, but he prides himself on being an adaptable fellow and scoops him up properly, keeping him close, breathing in how real and alive his companion is. They are both going along with an unwritten script, uncertain of where it should end, not really wanting it to. Jowd needs this warmth, he realizes, caressing Cabanela's back under the strange fabric of his clothes. He left so much of himself in the still, dark waters of the spirit where the dead could feel him. His guardian makes sure he can find his way back, for now. For example, now he is nuzzling in his beard in a way that keeps teasing the possibility of a neck kiss but doesn't give him the satisfaction. That's got a way of making a man feel alive.

"I'm still waiting for that verdict, Cabanela." Much as he loathes to distract the man.

"Oh, thaaat…" Cabanela lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and rests the back of his head against Jowd's shoulder, leaning against him with abandon. He waves his hand dismissively. "That was no dance, baby. That was an atrocity toward mankind."

"I'm supposed to help the dead let go," Jowd points out. If he had a whole feeling left it'd be offended. "If they danced with _ you _ they'd want to stick around."

"Who's to say they shooouldn't? Anyhoot, it'd be better than losin' you to them, like you almost did today. You really feel the pull of every cliff you could pooossibly throw yourself off of, don't you? What's so interesting in this Farplane of yours that you can't look away?"

They both know the answer. No need to ruin it by saying it out loud. Jowd shrugs.

"...Fine. Can you help with the dancing?"

"I can help with _anything_."

There is no arguing with that reply, it's set in stone, like so much of the hodgepodge of beliefs and unshakable will that make up this strange man (Jowd is reminded of a fayth, carved and painted but bubbling with so much more under the surface. Offer it your dream and soar). There is also no arguing with the way Cabanela slides back on the sand, hops up and reaches down to cup Jowd's face, pressing his forehead against his. Jowd can lean into this touch, feel alive, and hopeful, in the doomed way of summoners, at least. If he were to dance again now, the pull back toward the living would be stronger. For the first time, it feels like the road could continue past Guadosalam and toward Zanarkand, a Zanarkand, and at this point either city would suit him just as well.

"I don't wanna lose you, baby." 

Cabanela throws him a dry blanket. The temple looms over them; dinner awaits, and a warm bed with it.

"I know."

For today, it's enough.


End file.
